


Clever Enough for Bewitching

by iulia_linnea



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-17 16:43:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iulia_linnea/pseuds/iulia_linnea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written on 6 December 2006 in response to <a href="http://13oct.livejournal.com/profile">13oct</a>'s prompt of <i>Ron/Pansy</i>.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Clever Enough for Bewitching

**Author's Note:**

  * For [13oct](https://archiveofourown.org/users/13oct/gifts).



> Written on 6 December 2006 in response to [13oct](http://13oct.livejournal.com/profile)'s prompt of _Ron/Pansy_.

Fred and George had "bewizarded," as they put it, the pomegranates to produce every-flavor seeds, but they were all the same brilliant shade of purplish-red; the color matched Pansy's lips.

Ron kept thinking about that even though he knew it was stupid, but nothing was more stupid than Malfoy's ex-girlfriend being forced to work in his brothers' shop to prove to the Wizengamot that she was truly prepared to re-enter wizarding society—well, nothing except the annoying habit Fred and George had developed of dragging the distracting bint to the Burrow for the occasional meal when they'd thought up some new trick.

"Do you see, Mr. Weasley?" Pansy asked, as Arthur picked up some seeds to taste. "They're just like Bertie Botts' beans."

"Except they're healthier for you," Fred added.

Ron snorted and rubbed his injured leg, wishing—not for the first time—that he'd stayed with Harry and Hermione instead of coming home to recuperate after the war. "Since when did Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes become a produce shop?" he groused, trying not to think about how happy his best friends probably were without him, or which of the twins was shagging Parkinson. 

Pansy's generous lower lip, Ron noticed, began to tremble.

George noticed, as well, and said, as if in reproach, "Pansy's given us several interesting ideas."

"I did notice, dear," Arthur put in, pointedly ignoring Ron's comment. "And I'm sure Molly will enjoy these when she comes back from sitting with the triplets."

Irritated, Ron gathered himself up and hobbled out of the room with as much dignity as he could muster, thinking, _Stupid Parkinson. Stupid Fred. Stupid George. Stupid everyone_!

It was all so bloody stupid, his family looking after Parkinson for months when _he_ was the one who had been hurt. He hated Parkinson. He did—even if her mouth was that color, that rich, soft-looking color.

_Even if she isn't using it to insult people anymore_.

A brief image of Pansy using her mouth on _him_ flashed through Ron's mind.

"Stop it," he told himself, as he leaned up against the outside of the garden shed. "Just stop it."

"You might, at that, you ungrateful weasel," Pansy insisted, rounding the corner of the shed. "I thought you liked pomegranates!"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"I've been trying to come up with a way to—never mind," Pansy answered, turning to walk away.

Ron pushed himself off the shed and grasped Pansy's arm, demanding, "Don't 'never mind' me. Why does it matter? What've you been trying to do?"

"Let go of me."

_Now that is stupid. You don't order someone to let you go without putting some force into it_ , Ron thought, dropping Pansy's arm. "You sick?"

"No. Why do you ask?"

"You're being . . . reasonable," Ron replied, to Pansy's mouth.

"Git. I have _eyes_ , you know. Why are you always staring at my—"

"You still haven't answered my question," Ron interrupted, staring into Pansy's eyes with an effort.

"It wasn't their idea—the pomegranates—I just asked them to say it was because . . . because I didn't think you'd accept—I didn't know how else to thank you for testifying for me. They would have left me in Azkaban if you hadn't, and—"

"You weren't a Death Eater, and you don't have to thank me for—"

"You hate me, Weasley. You didn't have to—"

"Wait. You mean you were actually trying to be nice, to me?"

"You're not that thick, and you're not deaf, either. I just told—"

"Why," Ron interrupted, "would you want to be nice to me? I got you stuck in the twins' shop."

"You got me out of prison. You made it possible for me to walk down the street without being spat upon. Don't you think that's worth a thanking?"

"Yeah, but . . . but you're not the kind of girl who thanks people, Pans—Parkinson," Ron replied, gobsmacked, his eyes moving back to her mouth.

"Oh for Merlin's sake!" Pansy exclaimed, moving forward until she'd backed Ron into the shed and kissing him.

Ron dropped his crutch and thrust his tongue into Pansy's pomegranate-sweetened mouth, his rough lips moving over ones which were as soft as he'd imagined them, and thought, _I am thick. I could've been doing this for weeks, couldn't I have_?

Pansy stiffened as Ron cupped her arse through the silky material of her dress.

"You . . . you're welcome," he told her, removing his hand and his mouth from her body. "Um, sorry," he added.

"You're an idiot. Did I tell you to stop?" Pansy asked.

"But you stiffened up."

"So did you," Pansy said, dropping her gaze. "I'm glad to see that Fred was lying about the true extent of your injuries."

"What?"

"Never mind your brother. Are you going to take your thanking like a man, or do I have to mess about with more fruit for the rest of the afternoon?"

Ron smirked. "Fruit's okay, but I've always preferred nuts."

"You really _aren't_ clever," Pansy told him, moving forward to press herself into his chest and reaching down to stroke his prick.

Ron swallowed, hard. "'M okay with tha—"


End file.
